


that dress you like

by junes_discotheque



Series: (trust me) i can take you there [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub Play, Exhibitionism, Feminization, Filth, M/M, Panties, Semi-Public Sex, Situational Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jefferson announces Burr as his running mate. Burr responds with a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that dress you like

The box is black and tied with a white satin bow. It comes with a note: _Welcome to the team -TJ_

Aaron Burr takes a deep, angry breath through his nose and does his best to tamper down the wave of vitriol that’s almost become second nature over the past few months. Not that he’s ever voiced any of it out loud; he has spokespeople for that, and he’s always prided himself on appearing to be above the fray. Not that it helped, in the end. As a former senator with few political prospects left, it had been so easy to accept Jefferson’s offer. Drop out of the primary race, hand the nomination to the VP, and sign on as his running mate. He doesn’t have any regrets.

Mostly. He _mostly_ doesn’t have any regrets. The fact that he absolutely _despises_ Jefferson gave him pause (still gives him pause) but he understands the importance of _party unity,_ after an absolutely _vicious_ primary battle that went clear through the first week of June and nearly resulted in a stalemate. Until Jefferson showed up in Burr’s San Diego hotel room with an offer and a gift.

Burr had taken the offer and worn the gift eighteen hours later, when he conceded the race and handed the nomination to Thomas Jefferson.

That had been two weeks ago. Today, they officially announce their partnership and attempt to piece the fractured party back together ahead of the National Convention. Burr hopes his speechwriters have come up with a better justification for their sudden apparent friendship than “because politics” or “because we’ve been fucking since the first debate”.

Speaking of which.

He tugs the bow off the box, folding the ribbon nicely and setting it aside in case he decides he wants to make use of it later. It’s not the first gift of this kind that Jefferson’s sent to him, and he always feels a little bit like an escort when he accepts them. He’s also, annoyingly, reminded of at least a dozen Lana del Rey lines, and he blames his chief media strategist for that one.

He’s trying to think up a tactful and not-leading way of asking her exactly what she’s been trying to insinuate when his fingers brush against lace and he stops.

_God save me._

\-  -  -

“Ready?”

Burr is doing his best not to look at Jefferson. It’s not really successful, but considering how warm his face feels just from Jefferson standing five feet away and _talking,_ he really, really doesn’t want to risk whatever his expression will twist into if he meets his running mate’s eyes.

“Burr?”

 _Fuck._ “Yeah?” he responds. His voice comes out cracked and wavering and oh, it’ll be a miracle if he makes it through his speech. He skimmed the thing on the drive over, but had been so distracted he doesn’t remember a word of it.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better,” Burr says, and looks up.

And, instantly, wishes he hadn’t.

Jefferson’s attempting to look concerned, but it’s failing badly--he’s grinning, his eyes are bright, and he’d be bouncing on his toes if they weren’t surrounded by staff. He’s wearing a crisp black suit with a white shirt, a tastefully-sized flag pin, and--

His tie is _burgundy._ The exact shade--and Burr knows because he’d spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at them before he put them on, and then another half hour in front of the mirror--as the fine lace currently rubbing the head of Burr’s dick.

 _Deep breaths,_ he reminds himself. _You’ve done this before._ He has. There’s a small collection of Jefferson’s _gifts_ tucked safely away in the blue suitcase under piles of identical white dress shirts. He’s done this, and _worse,_ and he’s survived (the fifth debate notwithstanding). This is no different.

Jefferson smirks. “Get ready,” he says. “This is the first day of the rest of our lives.” He pats Burr on the back in what Burr assumes is supposed to be a friendly gesture, but sends him pitching forward. The lace shifts, and he’s precariously close from having his cock slip out the side of the panties. And with the eyes of the world on them.

\-  -  -

He makes it through the speech. Makes it through waving at the crowd, shaking hands with people whose names he should probably remember, smiling at the cameras like nothing’s wrong, like Jefferson’s hand pressing against his back isn’t _burning._

Small mercies; they manage to get away relatively quickly. There’s no need for them to linger, and Jefferson, who has an uncanny ability to get away with whatever he likes, ushers Burr away from everyone, down the stage, onto one of the campaign buses lined up in a fire lane.

Jefferson slams the door behind them, clicks the lock, and shoves Burr against the unforgiving metal. He can feel the bus shake a little. “Thomas--” he chokes out.

“Shh,” Jefferson says, gentle, against Burr’s lips. “Just let me see you.”

Burr whimpers a little as Jefferson unbuttons his pants and slides the zipper down torturously slow, and he can feel each tooth collapsing against his cock. He’s so fucking hard--has _been_ hard, he thinks, it’ll be a miracle if nothing showed on TV--and Jefferson’s breath is hot on his cheek. If he looked up, they’d be kissing, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Jefferson’s long fingers unwrapping him.

“ _Oh,_ ” Jefferson sighs above him. He untucks Burr’s shirt and moves it away, and Burr can see the flash of burgundy lace. “Look at this.”

He nudges the lace down half an inch, enough to let the red, swollen head of Burr’s cock poke out. It rests wetly on his stomach. Fuck--he’s _soaked._ He bites his lip and swallows the burning wave of embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t take much, would it?” Jefferson asks softly. He rubs his thumb over Burr’s cockhead, dipping into the slit, smearing precome over Burr’s skin. It _hurts_ , he’s so sensitive, the lace rubbing against his balls and the waistband digging into his shaft.

“ _Please_ ,” he gasps. “Please, I need--”

“I know, honey,” Jefferson says, and kisses his temple sweetly. “I’m gonna give it to you.”

Burr is almost dizzy with relief, frantic at the notion of getting to come, so distracted that he doesn’t register Jefferson moving until his cock is back in his panties. His shirt is tucked in, he’s buttoned and zipped and knows he must look nearly immaculate. He almost cries. He _wants_ to cry. Jefferson’s hand cups him through his suit pants. He rubs teasing circles and Burr struggles not to collapse.

“Tonight,” Jefferson says. “Gonna give it to you tonight, honey. Can you wait for it?”

He can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t do anything else but nod. Jefferson smiles and kisses his cheek.

“Good girl.”

\-  -  -

Getting back to the hotel is agony.

Burr manages to control himself enough that no one notices what an awful state he’s in, and his suit jacket is tailored long enough to cover any obvious bulge. On Jefferson’s advice, he’d had all his suits done this way--and yes, it does do him a fine justice, accentuating the length of his torso, but more importantly, the primary objective of hiding inappropriate physical reactions is attained.

He makes it up to his room, begging exhaustion and the overstimulation of--the crowd, the speech, the whole goddamn _day._ He says he wants to sleep. His staff shrugs and leaves him alone. Although Burr rarely loses his temper (and it’s become even rarer since he’s been regularly fucked), the few times he did have become legend. He dislikes being feared, but it does give him a certain extra privacy, about which he wouldn’t dream of complaining.

The jacket winds up thrown over the desk, and his shoes land a good six feet apart, and he collapses on his bed while still loosening the knot of his dark blue tie. He wants to sleep.

He wants to _come,_ first of all, but the idea of getting himself off like this, in his hotel room, after Jefferson had pressed him against the door of one of his buses ( _our_ buses, Burr reminds himself, _my name will be on there too_ ) and denied him, feels… wrong, somehow.

There’s no word for their arrangement. No rules. No routine. They have also not, technically, spoken of it, filthy promises _in situ_ notwithstanding.

Still, jerking off alone feels, in that moment, dirtier than simply _waiting._ Jefferson’s room is on the other side of their shared door. When it’s time, Jefferson will send for him. Burr has been waiting all his life; he is more than good at it.

He shuffles up his bed a little, turns on Fox News, and hits _mute._ He hates the sound of his voice, but he needs to see--

 _Immaculate._ At least, as immaculate as he’s going to get. He looks stiff, but he _always_ looks stiff, and when he steps away from the podium, Burr is relieved to see there is no bulge, no wet spot, no evidence of his _condition_.

Smiling a little to himself, he rolls over and closes his eyes.

He wasn’t actually lying about needing a nap.

\-  -  -

Burr wakes to an insistent rapping on the door. For a moment--for a little longer than a moment--he thinks he’s at home.

Then he remembers.

He sits up and rolls his shoulders, attempts to straighten his shirt, tries not to wince at the lace migrating around his dick, and very carefully walks to the door.

“Yes?” he asks, with a sigh that comes out much heavier than he intended. Maria Reynolds raises an eyebrow at him.

“The Vice President has asked you join him for dinner in his room at six to discuss strategy,” she says. “Privately.”

Burr nods. He’s learned not to think too much about what Maria knows. As Jefferson’s right hand woman, it’s almost definitely more than he’s comfortable with, and he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to keep from confronting her about it. Which, in addition to pissing Jefferson off, would just be _stupid._

Maria’s weathered scandals of her own with surprising grace. If ( _when_ ) they’re found out, they’ll need her. He thinks that’s probably why Jefferson hired her after the Pamphlet bearing her name ruined her career. Pissing Alexander Hamilton off was just a bonus.

He offers her the most neutrally polite smile he can muster. “Thank you,” he says. “Do you know what time it is now? I seem to have misplaced my watch.”

“Quarter after five,” she says. “You managed to sleep? Good. Enjoy it while it lasts.” She pauses and then turns, digging through the messenger bag at her hip. “And while I’ve got you…”

Apparently, Jefferson’s staff doesn’t let him read anything on the Internet. They pick through news sites and “news” sites and blogs and bring him the relevant information, hard-copy and minus comment sections. It’s a decent strategy. Burr’s just not sure he’s going to be able to go along with it.

“Don’t let him stay up too late,” Maria adds, just before she leaves. “We’re getting him up at five to prep for a full day of satellite interviews. You too, actually.”

“Great.”

“Have a good night.” She winks and vanishes around the corner.

Burr closes the door behind her and leans up against it. He doesn’t want to think about Maria Reynolds and What She Knows, and he definitely doesn’t want to think about _how_ she knows. Her almost meteoric rise in Jefferson’s campaign staff caused no few raised eyebrows; within a few months she’d gone from a low-level aide to nearly running the entire thing. That, coupled with Maria’s affair and the _aftermath,_ gave weight to more than a few nasty rumors.

He doesn’t believe a word of them. For one, Jefferson wouldn’t risk putting his campaign in the hands of anyone who wasn’t exceedingly good at the job, and for another, Jefferson can’t handle having multiple affairs at the same time. He is the model of serial monogamy.

For that matter, so is Burr.

He glances at the clock on his nightstand. Half past five, now. Thirty minutes to get ready, and he knows how Jefferson is about tardiness. The blue suitcase is sitting by his bed, just as he asked, and his hands shake a little just thinking about what’s in there.

What he’s about to do.

He unzips the suitcase and fishes out a plain black shopping bag and a white toiletries bag. The shopping bag goes on his bed. The toiletries go with him into the bathroom. He showers perfunctorily, using the little courtesy soaps. There’s no need to go all-out, he thinks; he’ll be dirty again soon enough. He’s shaking so badly that the soap winds up in three pieces before he finishes.

Then he turns off the water, wraps a hotel towel around his waist, and steps out.

The toiletries bag on the counter seems to mock him.

\-  -  -

Burr knocks on their shared door at exactly six o’clock. He counts the seconds in his head--one, _two, three--_ and then hears Jefferson call at him to come in. He takes a deep breath, counts backwards--three, _two, one_ \--and opens the door.

His steps are shaky in the three-inch heels, and he’s almost sure he’ll topple over and break an ankle, but that’s not the _worst_ of it. The worst is the dress. It’s so tight he can barely breathe, stretched over his chest, and when he looks down there’s the slight illusion of cleavage.

He tries not to look down.

It’s a deep purple color, Jefferson’s favorite, and it falls halfway down his thighs, hugging his legs and keeping him from taking more than tiny steps. He wears a gold bangle on his left wrist, and a thick necklace of cubic zirconia around his throat. His lips are glossed and he's wearing mascara and a faint glimmer of pale pink eye shadow. He feels completely and utterly ridiculous, and he can’t look at Jefferson’s face. Can’t look anywhere, really. _God,_ what was he _thinking--_

“ _Christ,_ ” Jefferson mutters, and Burr hears him standing up from his sofa. He bites his lip, tastes the chemical cherry of the gloss. “Turn around. Let me see you.”

Burr’s breath hitches. He turns slowly, awkward in his heels, trying not to fall over. He wonders if Jefferson would catch him if he did stumble.

“ _Christ,_ ” Jefferson says again. He places a hand on Burr’s hip, rubs his thumb against the sharp jut of bone there. “Did you plan all this for me?”

His tongue is thick in his mouth. He swallows. “For us,” he says. It comes out like a rasp. He finally manages to meet Jefferson’s face, then--for half a second, just enough to see him grinning with sharp teeth and wild eyes--before Jefferson’s curling the fingers of his other hand in Burr’s necklace and pulling him in.

Jefferson’s mouth is violent. His tongue forces its way inside without permission, and his teeth graze and bite at Burr’s lips. It’s all that Burr can do to keep standing, to close his eyes and be _taken_ , soft and pliant and waiting.

The fingers on Burr’s necklace drop to his chest, tracing along the mock cleavage and dipping under the soft fabric. A fingernail catches on his nipple and Burr gasps into Jefferson’s mouth, the shock of it sending his hips stuttering against Jefferson’s. He feels Jefferson smirk, and he does it again, rubbing faint and slow and pulling desperate sounds from Burr’s lips.

The hand on his hip snakes around his body, cupping his ass and dragging him closer. Jefferson rolls his hips and grinds Burr against him, sliding his hand down, under Burr’s skirt and up his thigh, almost to--

“I ordered mac and cheese and steak,” Jefferson says. It takes Burr a second to realize he’s cold, to realize Jefferson’s left him and is standing by the table, setting out plates and food. He looks entirely unfazed, only the slight tent in his pants any evidence that he’s been affected.

He tries to take a step forward. His legs are lead. His feet ache in the heels. “Um.”

Jefferson looks up at him. Softens. “Do you need help, honey?”

Burr doesn’t say a word. Can’t. Jefferson comes over and helps him anyway, wrapping an arm around his waist and walking him the ten steps to the table.

“There we go. It’s okay, you’ll feel better once you have some food in you.” He pulls out Burr’s chair for him and sits him down. “Let me.”

Jefferson serves him a plate of half a steak and a couple small spoonfuls of macaroni, but even that seems like too much. His stomach is in knots, crawling its way up through his throat, and he thinks he’ll pass out before he even takes a bite. Jefferson is watching, one eyebrow cocked in a mockery of concern, and as he takes his own seat Burr realizes he hadn’t even noticed what Jefferson is wearing until now--jeans so dark they’re almost black, and a black t-shirt that might as well be painted on.

If Burr thought he was going to have trouble eating before, it’s _nothing_ on how he’s feeling now. He can’t tear his eyes away from Jefferson’s arms, the sleeves of his shirt all but ripping over his biceps, his thick forearms resting on the table, and god, his _fingers,_ wrapped delicately around his fork--

“Aaron.”

He forces himself to meet Jefferson’s face. Amusement, definitely, and some admonishment, and he feels a warm burning in his chest as he ducks his head and picks up his own fork and knife and attempts to focus enough to cut his meat.

“Here,” Jefferson says, after the third time Burr tries and fails to slice through the steak. He places his own fork and knife down and reaches across to take Burr’s plate.

“You don’t--” Burr protests. He hates this. He hates feeling weak and small, and he hates that a tiny, needy little whine escapes him as Jefferson begins cutting up his food into tiny, bite-sized pieces. He wrings his hands together under the table, twists his fingers into his napkin as he watches Jefferson.

When he’s done, Jefferson places his knife and fork back on his own plate and pushes Burr’s back towards him. Burr carefully disentangles his hands from the napkin and reaches for his silverware, but Jefferson’s hand on his wrist stops him.

Jefferson pushes his hand aside and takes his knife, holding it between two fingers, and places it back on the service cart. “You don’t need this,” he says. Burr drops his head, fighting back tears as he takes up his fork.

The first couple of bites of steak and pasta taste like ash as he forces himself back under control. Then he can hear Jefferson talking, and that’s easier, he can focus on that. Jefferson’s going on about some poll Maria showed him about Burr’s popularity among moderates and undecideds. Part of him thinks _really? Now? At this moment?_ but at the same time he’s grateful for the distraction and wonders if it’s intentional.

He’s about halfway through the steak and a third of the way through the macaroni on his plate when Jefferson finishes, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and looks at him.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he says, and it would be gentle but for the predatory gleam in his eye. “Here I am going on and on about Indiana and you’re just sitting there, waiting so nicely for me.” He stands up, walking slowly around the table. Burr’s fork clatters on his plate. He cranes his neck to look up, as Jefferson reaches out, fingertips a hairsbreadth away from his cheek. “You must be _aching_ ,” he murmurs.

A vicious shudder runs through Burr, his breath coming out as high, whining gasps, near-pleas, and he reaches out, tentatively, for Jefferson.

“Go ahead,” Jefferson says, and Burr does, places his palms flat on Jefferson’s stomach, rubbing over the contours of his abs through the tight, thin t-shirt. His cock is hard in his jeans, an obscene outline, and Burr is suddenly starving. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the button.

Jefferson swears and knocks his hands away.

“Get up,” he growls, a redundant order as he’s hauling Burr up, grabbing him and pulling him towards the couch. They collapse together, Jefferson lounging back and Burr straddling his thick, heavy thighs, and he’s sure the dress will rip. Jefferson’s hands are hot on his skin, rubbing his thighs and inching the fabric up higher, higher-- “What’s this?”

“I got them for you,” Burr says, breath hitching as Jefferson rubs his fingers over the lavender satin. “Do you like them?”

“They’re very pretty, honey,” Jefferson says, almost absently. “But what happened to your nice lace panties? I spent a lot of time picking them out. I wanted to see you in them tonight.”

 _Fuck._ He knew. He knew Jefferson was going to ask. Burr squirms on his lap, struggles for the words, fights the heat warming his face and the embarrassment curdling low in his stomach. “They were dirty,” he manages, barely a whisper.

“Dirty?”

“Wet.”

“Did you come in them, honey?” Jefferson asks. “Rub your cock through the lace when you got back to your room and spill all over them?”

Burr shakes his head. He can’t think. The room is spinning and Jefferson’s fingers are so light, his voice is so soft, and he can’t, he _can’t--_ “No,” he says. “I couldn’t. Couldn’t touch myself. Went back to my room and went to sleep, but they--they were wet anyway. Sticky.”

“Get up.”

It takes a few seconds for Burr to hear him. “What?”

“Go get them.”

Another few seconds. _Oh. Ohh._ He slides off Burr’s lap, struggles to stand in the heels--

“You can take those off. I don’t want you hurting yourself,” Jefferson says, and somehow that stings worst of all. His head is aching and his cock is throbbing and _you can take the heels off_ is cutting him worse than all the other… than everything else he’s endured here tonight.

He slips them off anyway, piles them at the end of the sofa, and stumbles unsteadily back to his room. The burgundy panties are right where he left them, folded under the pile of the suit from earlier, and he gathers them into his fist.

Jefferson holds out his hand expectantly when he returns, and Burr obediently hands the panties over. He folds his hands behind his back and waits while Jefferson inspects them. _Calm._

“So fucking wet,” he says, almost awed. He stands up and tucks them halfway into his jeans pocket. “Get on the bed, honey.”

Burr does, awkwardly, climbing on and sitting up against the pillows with his legs parted as much as the dress will allow. Jefferson doesn’t give any indication that he approves of his positioning, just stares at him, heated, as he removes his shirt and unbuttons his jeans. He pauses for a moment before removing them, then pulls the burgundy panties back out of his pocket. “I’ve changed my mind,” he mutters to himself. Burr can’t begin to imagine what he means, and then it doesn’t matter, because Jefferson is naked, and he can’t take his eyes off his cock.

Jefferson is _huge,_ thick and long and _glorious,_ and while Burr isn’t exactly lacking, it always makes him feel small in comparison. His ass clenches in anticipation; though he’s taken that and more, the sight is always a little daunting. Jefferson smirks at him and crawls up the bed, the knowing grin never leaving his face.

“Gonna fuck you in your pretty dress,” Jefferson says, pushing up his dress and exposing the lavender panties. He dips his head and mouths along Burr’s cock through the satin. Burr groans and his hips jerk, and Jefferson pulls away. “I’m gonna make you scream,” he says. “But the walls are so thin, and we can’t let anyone hear us. Do you understand?”

Burr blinks at him. He tries to understand. Jefferson leans down and kisses him, deceptively gentle.

“That’s all right, honey,” he says, and holds up the burgundy lace panties.

And then Burr understands.

He nods and opens his mouth, and Jefferson whispers _“Good girl”_ before shoving the panties past his lips, stopping his tongue.

Burr nearly gags at the taste of dry fabric and the strong, sour remnants of his arousal some hours earlier. He tries to protest, but the panties do their job well, and only some muffled grumbling comes out. Jefferson grins, proud.

He rolls Burr over on his stomach, then, drags his hips up and inches the lavender panties down his thighs. Burr can’t really spread his legs like this, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Jefferson. He pats Burr’s ass gently and leans over the side of the bed. Burr turns his head and watches Jefferson come up with a bottle of lube and a condom, and the sight strikes him-- _fuck, he’s going to fuck me, I’m going to be fucked, God_ , a months-late epiphany.

Jefferson takes his time prepping him, rubbing lube over the tight rim of his hole before pressing one long finger inside him. Fucking him just with that until he’s near to sobbing, clutching at the sheets and trying to beg through his gag for _more._ He adds another and continues with the same unhurried pace, murmuring something about _good_ and _patient_ and _soon_ and words that Burr is not entirely sure are English.

The third finger does make him scream, a muffled yell of frustration, and Jefferson laughs.

“Okay, honey,” he says. “You’ve been so good, I’ll give you what you need now, okay?” He pulls the fingers from Burr, and Burr whimpers. “Shh,” Jefferson whispers.

And slams into him in a single thrust, fucks him rough, half a dozen hard, merciless strokes that punch the breath from Burr’s chest and he can’t even scream, it’s too much.

“Taking me so good,” Jefferson’s saying. He slows his pace a little, pulling out so the seam of his cockhead drags over Burr’s hole, then shoving back in to the hilt. He can’t think, can’t do anything but curl his fingers in the sheets and choke on the lace in his mouth. He thinks he might be crying; his face is wet, but it might also be sweat, and the dress, still clinging to his torso, is entirely too constricting.

He doesn’t realize how close he is to coming until Jefferson wraps a hand around his cock and his orgasm hits him out of _nowhere,_ from barely a _touch,_ and he thinks he might have passed out--he’s limp, shaking, and Jefferson’s still fucking him, hands digging bruises into his hips. His hole is oversensitive, every drag against his prostate is _agony,_ but he can do nothing but let himself be used, a wet and willing body for Jefferson’s dick.

Jefferson’s collapsed next to him. Burr doesn’t remember Jefferson coming, but he must have, because his dick is soft against Burr’s hip.

“You can sleep now, honey,” he murmurs, and Burr does, drifting off with Jefferson’s teeth scraping his throat.


End file.
